A Curious Lullaby
by Ochita
Summary: Insomnia, it eats away at ones health slowly. A case is the only cure...he needs just one. Ch 2
1. Chapter 1

I do not own anyone from the Sherlock Holmes cast.

**Insomnia**

"With insomnia nothing is real; everything is a copy of a copy of a copy." – Chuck Palahniuk

There are many things, torturously complex things requiring the up-most determined and trained mentality, which my dear friend Sherlock Holmes is not only capable of, but can pull of with the greatest of ease.

Sleep is not one of these things.

Being his roommate until Mary returned from visiting family in Carlisle, may at times be trying, considering his lacking consideration but even I have limits. Sometimes I am not quite sure whether it be sheer obliviousness, or another restless habit he cannot help, but firing off eight rounds into the wall at 4 o'clock in the morning is unacceptable by neighborhood standards, so as I sat this morning in front off my lean companion, of whom looked much worse for wear accounted for by the deepening circles beneath his usually glittering grey eyes, I prepared myself to have a nice long chat with him about his new set of habits which now included chemical explosions at ungodly hours in the morning, along with poring copper into the hearth because it 'looked amazing' and 'helped calm the nerves' (it nearly gave Mrs. Hudson a bout of apoplexy, finding him playing his violin at 2 am in front of roaring green flames).

"Holmes, you know you are my dearest friend, but this madness of yours must cease."

"Whatever do you mean, Watson?" He shot me an innocent look, his acting skills still at top function despite his sleep deprivation.

"By God man, you can not expect me to fall for your naivety farce this early in the day! You look as though hell spit you up. And I would not blame the devil for it!"

"Now, that seems a bit harsh." Holmes pursed his lips, looking down at the toast and marmalade in front of him as though it were not to be trusted.

"Eat." I demanded.

"I find food repulsive nowadays." Holmes let out a barely audible sigh, sniffing at his coffee with his hawk-like nose, putting it down with distaste marking his gaunt features.

'Then I will ask Mrs. Hudson to make you some tea." I stated gruffly, feeling fairly cheated out of sleep.

"My old chap, tell me I have not kept you up as well." He looked utterly stunned, and oddly, I could not help but believe him.

"Holmes, it is most definitely the cocaine. Tell me you are trying to at least lessen those generous doses you seem so eager to contaminate yourself with."

A hardly visible smile, as wistful as it was bitter, graced his thin lips, his pallid tone giving him an almost ghostly appearance, which was quite startling considering it was nearing 9:00. I sighed, knowing my friend's addiction was the result of a lacking high in his life. I could think of nothing to replace it beside, of course, another case, yet now after the capture of Moriarty they were seeming thin and far in between.

The only answer to his lonely existence seemed the only solution Holmes would never resort to.

A woman.

"Holmes, have you ever considered-"

"No." He answered irritably, "I would never compromise my judgment for the sake of emotional attachments."

"I was thinking…" I am quite sure my cheeks did take on a sanguine.

"Of an activity that would undoubtedly tire me, my friend? I cannot I am afraid, Catholic as I am." Holmes let out a sigh to emphasize his nonchalance.

"Not that!" I exclaimed, continuing in a huff, "Though it came to me suddenly. I mean, someone to…stay up with you, as Mary does for myself."

"You come straight from an Afghan camp with the constitution of a gorilla, Watson. Surely you do not believe there to be a member of the fairer sex that could possibly tolerate me and my _moods_ as you have come to describe them."

"Surely _you _do not have the arrogance to deem yourself unlovable." I snorted.

"No my good fellow, merely pray that I am." He retorted haughtily, trying to kill this, in his eyes, dull exchange.

"You're hardly a priest, Holmes." I chortled back, prying into this subject farther than I ever had before, "Mary has several eligible friends that are quite infa-"

"If they are anything like she, I am sorry my loyal companion, but I must decline." He grumbled, sinking into his chair with dread reflecting upon his expression.

"Now what is that supposed to mean!" I sputtered, bristling with indignation.

"It is not meant to be insulting Watson, but Mary is charming, delicate, and a woman of greater virtue than most…you know I am not one of any extraordinary inhibition. Besides, I know she believes me to an insufferable arse." He muttered, "Do not try denying it."

I did not of course, quite unsure of how he had taken the exact quote from my darling wife. Despite all he had done for her, Mary was not the greatest fan of my friend…but that is because his shenanigans had nearly taken my head on more than a few occasions.

I would not hear his diversions of the conversation anyhow and pressed further, "Well, what type of woman is suitable?"

"A woman with the brain of a man." He answered carelessly, before grinning softly, "I cannot stand frivolity, Watson. You and I know there is no such woman in existence so this discourse is not worth partaking in any longer."

I sighed, "You are truly devoted to your work are you not?"

"Yes, Watson, and for that reason, engaging in any subjective activity, beyond that of playing my violin, is completely out-of-the-question." He replied, picking up the toast and carrying it to the window, opening the glass pane, and proceeding to toss bits of it onto the sill for the birds.

There was a silence before Holmes asked a most peculiar question, "Watson, what type of man, do you suppose, you should meet in an empty graveyard, in the dead of night?"

"Why my dear Holmes," I smiled at him commically, "A dead one, of course."

My companion chuckled to himself, and crushing the rest of the bread into crumbs, he persisted in sprinkling them out the window.

And for the next week and a half, until Holmes sought a new case, I was kept up late at night by all his oddities. Then finally, in an act of desperation, he decided to approach Lestrade.

* * *

P.O.V unknown 

Cold.

My lips felt numb.

I watched the ice dance down from the sky, the white ballerinas twisting, leaping, and spinnig against the pitch canvass of the 'great unkown', flitering toward the grass where they were doomed to melt in the sun of the afternoon. For a few moments, I wished my life were as fragil, easily cast down into the afterlife; I was certain not to go in any upward direction after my existence ceased. My mind was tired, as was my body, yet still, even in this hour of demons, three ante meridiem, the mythical witching hour, I could find no solace; there was nothing for this wretched soul of mine.

_There is a time for all things._

Yeah? A time to sing little Catholic school-girl rhymes while wasting away the hours of darkness, perched in a Mullberry tree that took root in the centre of this godforsaken cemetary? Maybe I should dance upon the raingutters of that ancient mausoleum and recite the Beatitudes. How could I desecrate this faith I so flippantly call my own? Should I further scientific theory, thrust myself into the unknown as a beacon to every evil I persue? Should I share this fire with those cast in the blackness of ignorance? Surely, not even then should the fate of Prometheus touch what horror the mortal realm would bestow upon my conscience.

_To everything there is a season._

Shut up!

_Deliver us from our ignorace..._

No!

_This is your voice, use it for only righteousness!_

That is not my voice!

_Love thine enemy..._

Stop...please.

_...As thyself._

I cannot love myself.

_Love with all your mind, heart, and spirit._

**I cannot!**

_Let your conscience be your guide._

**I CANNOT DO THAT!!!**

**_SLEEP!_**

"I can't!" My own voice broke the messy buzz of static trasmitting across what little subsanity I still maintained, causing me to jump and slide from my branch.

I crashed upon the ground rather unceremoneously, laying in a crumpled pile.

I looked to the side, and saw an emaciated figure with curious grey eyes peering at me.

Saying nothing, I left the graveyard, as I had so many times before.

Empty.

* * *

The morning was crisp and clear, yet the wind blew by in such a rush so as to freeze an urchin's knickers. The orange-red leaves of autumn fell upon the walk delicately, only to be crunched beneath the boots of men, bustling to their occupations, whistling for hansoms and cabs. My dear friend Sherlock, of whom contrasted the lively morning with his own ghastly appearance stood upon the avenue at his striking six feet and four inches, his aquiline nose peeking over a rather threadbare scarf, his bowler firmly placed down to his brow, and a long tweed trench upon his thin shoulders, covering him collar to toe. I straightened my hat, blowing upon my gloved hands and rubbing them against one another ferociously, the chilly air seeping in through my own coat and linen cravat. My form appeared a bit hunched, desperately trying to keep in the heat my body produced, Holmes seemed perfectly immune to the elements however, and raised his long, lithe arm up to hale us a ride. 

As the hansom came to a halt, I took note that the driver, a gruff, stalky looking man, wore no coat at all; an involuntary shiver crawling across my skin at the thought of riding shotgun without any protection from the wind sank into my brain.

"Where to?" He quieried.

"Brixton, if you would be so kind." Holmes spoke, clearing his throat in the process.

We clambered in and off the man took, a rather crazed driver, that he was. I held onto my hat as my posterior slid along the bench, smashing me against the side of the cabin. I let out a muffled "ompf!" not surprised in the least to see Holmes sitting quite still, acting as though this were of normal occasion. I held onto my seat as best I could, thankful once I managed to set my feet on land once again. Holmes smiled at me in a rather good natured way, making me feel near childish despite easily being his senior by five years. We walked nearly two blocks when finally we saw the backside of the burly detective Lestrade, storming into a quaint little library, red in the face and looking highly irate. Without questioning how my dear friend new the whereabouts of the somewhat pompous man I merely followed, knowing Holmes would indeed relate all details of his investigation to me later on in our day together.

As we walked in, the chimes of bells were heard, and a welcoming heat fell against us, the sweet smell of pumpkin and the musk of some unidentified spice filled our nostrils, immediately setting me at ease. Hanging our coats upon an old oak wrack by the door we stepped into the library settling in chairs by the front desk where a very strange little figure sat, the bellowing policeman facing the, who I assumed to be, librarian.

"What the bloody devil is this!" The man exclaimed at the top of his large lungs, waving around what was obviously a stick of unlit dynamite as could be seen inscibed across it.

Both I and Holmes caught the disinterested, heavily American accented tone; reply rather apathetically, "Hmm…dunno, looks like a cigar," before it added with amusement, "Need'a light?"

I sat there in pure shock.

Such cheek to law enforcement!

Utterly horrified with this lacking respect I turned to Holmes to comment on this outrage, only to spot him doubled over. Confused and suddenly concerned for my dear friend I patted him on the shoulder a bit before leaning down to his level. Unexpectedly he whipped up in a straight back position, clutching his stomach, face flushed past any I had ever seen in my career, his convulsing manner so disturbing, I nearly began to open cry for a medical aid kit. Then it happened.

I have never heard my friend laugh so deeply and wonderfully in my life and I must confess it was one of the more beautiful sounds to have ever graced my ear.

Lestrade, of course, made an about face, mortified at our appearance and the fact that Holmes was now close to tears. I made a sputtering noise, not knowing whether to apologize for my friend's behavior or greet him in the proper fashion, experiencing an odd sort of ignominy for being at a loss on this account.

"What is so damn funny?!" Lestrade demanded of Holmes.

The same board voice returned with the comment, "I'll go out on'a limb here and say it's you."

"How dare you, you bloody worm?!" Lestrade cried, spinning to face his offender.

He turned just enough so I could see the owner of the voice, and librarian of this shop, completely shocked by such an appearance.

The eyes were very large yet evenly set, and the irises a most startling hazel green, like that of a cat. The face was soft and gentle, the lips full and a dark pink colour that stood out against the bronze skin. The hair, black as coal, was only slightly curled but more swirled and waved that anything, presenting itself hanging in the person's eyes and at the back gathering about the base of the nape in the fashion of a gentleman that had neglected to cut it for some time. The eyebrows were arched and of medium width and the nose was not big enough to be called large yet certainly not small. This head was leaned upon a big hand, elbow upon the desk, propping it up. I could see the thin form was clad in a grey worn suite, and sitting in a lazy manner.

The most outrageous detail being, that this librarian, was in fact…

"When your questions have such obvious answers the audacity it takes to reply is slim to non-existent, considering how confident I am in the presented conclusion." A small smirk settled across those lovely lips as they turned into a sneer, "Try it some time…should renew your self-importance."

A woman.

This is my first Sherlock fic, please go easy on me!


	2. The Lead

Don't own Sherlock Holmes.

**The Lead**

Unknown P.O.V.

The world is divided into two different categories-

Smart people and…

Stupid people…

…So when a fine example of the latter came marching into the Library at 8:30 in this lovely morning, I felt it an absolute necessity to give him some trouble for his time. Alright…maybe the bitchy-ness was more due to the fact that I had not slept for a full 96 hours, but the fact still remains that, because he _had_ dropped the IQ average in the room a good 40 points just by stumbling in, I, at the very least merited a show of my annoyance.

After my small quip about improved pomposity I made my decision for the day…

…This coat really needed a good washing, something in it was making me itch like _crazy_. But then again, the texture of everything changes with insomnia. Nothing is ever soft enough, and if it is you can't feel it, as though you were living inside your skin. This scratchy material only reinforced the idea that I could never be comfortable enough for a good night's rest, and this of course, bugged the crap out of me.

_Beetles…definitely like beetles._

Raising my hand to my ear I pushed the palm against it and proceeded to rub that little voice out, moving the appendage that didn't quite seem to belong to me, in waggling motions. Some people develop mental instability during periods of insomnia. Professionals call it manifestations of stress; some customers believe I have some type of delusional alter ego…

In my opinion it's gotta be my conscience.

"Think your cute don't you?" Lestrade snarled at me, his humongous mustache dancing around his lip as he did.

He'd been saying something previously but I confess my interests were otherwise preoccupied with matters I found worth it…

Such matters were consequently trivial and only pertained to myself.

Yes, I am that egotistical. No, even if I wasn't I still wouldn't listen to this moron.

"Well, with the way you've been eyein' me, Sugar, anyone would." I bat my eyelashes at him, feigning a southern accent.

He'd set himself up for that.

Under the impression that I was a man, Lestrade's face turned a rather purple shade, as though he suddenly felt suffocated. Apparently homosexuality here wasn't as well accepted as it was back home. I waggled my eyebrows at him, only to see him spin back to the men behind him and shout, "You see what I must put up with!"

He then turned back to me and bellowed in a show of outrage, "Smuggling explosives is illegal!"

"Huh…no kiddin'." I murmured, rubbing my chin thoughtfully, "I'll be damned Lestrade; never would'a guessed it myself."

"You blasted little-"

"Detective Lestrade, perhaps you would like to relate the details of your investigation to myself, and then I could possibly deal with this most unpleasant interrogation."

I looked upon the tall, thin frame of a hawk-nosed man. His eyes, a piercing grey, glanced down at me as he flashed a reassuring smile. Admittedly, the grin on that man was a bit disarming; almost as if he were conveying that he knew something I didn't, but I decided it was best not to let that get to me. His gaze was calculating, and I did not miss it when it landed upon my throat before flickering back up to my own eyes.

I stretched my arms up over my head and leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling in a show of complete detachment.

The two men had to urge Lestrade out the door before he attacked me.

* * *

My dear reader, if there were ever a time to be so appalled by a lack of manners in a single character I have taken the liberty to discuss with you now would most definitely be the time and place. I confess, I had my doubts about the young figure's womanhood, not quite sure whether she was merely a very effeminate man, but as I looked upon her sleek form as she stretched I could only draw such a conclusion-

She was indeed a woman wearing a man's suite.

I could not read the expression upon the face of Holmes; he seemed quite adamant in deducing her, which could only be discerned by the unmistakable focus displayed upon his features. However, as he offered to take up the case, I could see he had no intention of leaving such a curious character out of the mix. Once stepping outside into the crisp morning air we strolled until we came upon a bench of which we all sat. Lestrade was the first of us to speak.

"I cannot tolerate that dysocial prig!"

Both Holmes and I were a bit startled by his outburst, wondering perhaps that this occurrence between the detective and strange woman happened often. Holmes seemed to calm him down with his stare before beckoning the case from the distraught man.

"Someone set off an explosion at the Yard the other day." Lestrade explained.

"Ah, I read it in the Strand this morning." Holmes nodded his head before querying, "And what does that Librarian have to do with such a destructive occurrence?"

"I see him, night after night, sneaking his way down to the pier after hours." Lestrade snarled, "I know he waits for some type of signal, and like clockwork, he stays an hour and leaves."

"Where does he leave to?" My companion enquired, though he surely must have known the librarian was in fact a 'she'.

"I do not know, blast it! Every time I attempt tailing him, he bloody disappears!" Lestrade was now red in the face, crying out, "But by damn I have him now! Look what I found behind that bastard's shop. Look…look!"

Demanding our attention he thrust the stick of dynamite into our faces, pointing at it with his other hand. Holmes snatched it from the officer's grasp, turning it over in his hands and examining it carefully before lifting it to his aquiline nose. Examining the scent of the object the Detective shut his grey eyes to gain a fuller affect. Holmes had always had an exquisite sense of smell, able to identify over 120 different perfumes and their contents. His eyes blinked open after inhaling several times, speaking "It smells of almonds."

"Eh?" Lestrade was obviously confused by such a conclusion, his hands running down the length of his large thighs so as to wipe the sweat from them.

"Well Mr. Holmes, what do you propose that means?"

"In all honesty…" Holmes spoke, and then smiled rather benevolently at nothing in particular, "I have utterly no clue."

I must confess, my expression was one of utmost bewilderment, and then it turned to exasperation at the smile he had dancing along his face and the glint of pure pleasure in his eyes. This, of course, meant that he had no intention of resting until he came upon the explanation for this curious phenomenon. I had always sought in Holmes the absolutes of enquiry, and to realize he had no answer at the present moment put me in a position to witness what little passion my friend would show. There was no such puzzle beyond his cold, calculating mind, however lacking the given information.

"My good fellow, would you be so kind as to lead me to the origin of this explosive?" Holmes asked kindly.

Lestrade nodded his consent, pressing his hands upon his thighs to force himself into a standing position. As he led us to our intended destination, Holmes seemed very light upon his feet, a beaming grin upon his face. I could not help at smile at his obvious excitement, like a child with a pound to spend at any candy shop he pleased. His thin hands held tight to the stick of dynamite.

"Lestrade did not give us enough information, should you not question him further?" I asked my friend beneath my breath, wary of the man in front of us.

"Watson my old chap," Holmes laughed, "he is not the man with the information."

"Are you implying corruption?" I gasped at such a forward remark.

"No, not necessarily," Holmes answered, continuing with a less than humorous expression upon his face now, "He treats detection as though it were an emotional process, raising his hand to point his finger upon anyone in the whole of London. His reasoning is internally biased, and lacks the dispassionate perception one should look upon any criminal transgression with. He is wanting in objectivity and thus compromises all information he has ever given me. Gregson is little better. Speaking in terms of quality verses quantity I need nothing more than what he gave to me, and even then some of his spasmodic outburst could have been saved."

"A few of his fellows at Scotland yard were injured, Holmes." I spoke beneath my breath, adding, "Surely you cannot criticize his want to capture a criminal."

"There is no excuse for flippant accusation, Watson." Holmes sneered at the thought.

"If I became mortally injured due to an enemy attack you would not act detached Holmes." I snorted, clearly skeptical on the topic of his emotional stability

"I would be more than detached." Holmes replied stoically, causing me to stop in my tracks along the cobblestones and ask in a numb tone, "Why?"

I felt as though I were stabbed through the gut with something blunt. Such an apathetically spoken statement seemed more than inhuman, even for someone as emotionally lacking as Holmes. Of course our friendship never reached the point of intimate confidence but I had always assumed the reason to be Holmes' personal deficiency.

"Well," Holmes began, turning about to look at me with an evil grin, "If I dismembered the wrong person I may feel a tad guilty would I not?"

When that comment sank in I realized that no intimate confidence in one another was needed. Holmes would always be my true friend, no matter how depraved the man was.

As we walked up the cobblestones and turned into the darkened alleyway we caught sight of a thin figure of medium height, leaning against the side of the passage. As we approached closer I noted that it was indeed the librarian, smoking a cigarette, and now clad in a long tweed coat and wide-brim hat of the shoddiest nature. Her soft profile was marred by the shadows cast from the rim of her shady accessory. Her long eyelashes also cast spiderlike shadows upon her cheeks despite the tinted lenses that covered the green orbs, and her oval face took on a more ominous appearance. Her posture was relaxed and lazy, uncaring to any witness about. This woman was not delicate in the slightest, though her beautiful features may have suggested otherwise. She was not demure, she had no alluring charm, no womanly traits affiliated with her sex, and no fear of society's criticism. She was tall for a woman, though thin, as could be seen by the way her clothes clung loosely to her body.

Holmes, curious as he is, strode right up the woman and introduced himself in a fashion only Holmes would feel comfortable with.

"Good day, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a Detective consultant. May I enquire your name?"

The young woman threw the end of her cigarette to the ground while looking down, guarding her face from view for the moment, stepping on it with her dress shoe, and, turning back up she held out her hand adorned with a fingerless glove and spoke, "Jonathan Raincaster, Jack-of-all-trades."

Holmes shook the girl's hand, smiling, "It is a pleasure, Miss Raincaster."

Not in the least surprised with his deduction of her gender she replied, "Likewise, Mr. Holmes."

"Miss?" Lestrade choked, "He's wearing a suite, Mr. Holmes!"

"…And thus has a penis." The girl snorted, sticking two cigarettes into her lovely, foul mouth and lit them up.

Taking a drag and exhaling, while handing one cigarette to Holmes, she leaned back into the wall and added, "Well, therein lies the problem, eh?"

I began to sputter, so red in the face I thought my cheeks would ignite, the Inspector doing little to cover his own embarrassment with the woman's crass words as well. I have no guilt in telling you dear reader that she is an abomination to women everywhere; a wicked creature in the guise of an innocent. Her behavior is unacceptable in polite society and was I Lestrade; I would have taken her into custody and taught her to act as she should. Never had I witnessed this in a woman! And from now on I knew I would never stand for her…

…But Holmes apparently found her novel and chuckled before putting the cigarette in his own mouth, murmuring "You do not smoke often, do you?"

"…Only to unwind every now and then." She sighed and blew a smoke ring into the sharp morning air.

"How could you know I smoke?" asked Holmes.

"You smell like tobacco."

"Yes, but that could easily be from a pipe." My companion commented, though I knew for a fact that had he been deducing her habits he could have told her were and when the tobacco was made, what type it was, and the affect it gave people.

He had written a monograph on tobacco(1).

"You have burns and residue on your index and middle finger." She rolled her eyes beneath her glasses as though it were obvious.

Holmes gazed down at her for a moment, once again a look of deduction in his eyes. His hawklike features focusing upon her in a predator's expression. I understood that he was capable of deducing such a thing, but for anyone to do the same to him was an odd occurrence; though, given his vanity he would most likely brush off such perception as a mere mistake on his part, not an accomplishment on hers.

"What is that putrid smell?" I enquired, not capable of containing the thought any longer.

The rank aroma permeated the air of the alley like a stagnant river, causing me to inquire about the origin of such a rancid stench. Whatever rot emanated such a disgusting scent should not be kept in public. It nearly overturned my stomach, and I could see Lestrade was having difficulties coping with it as well. Holmes being Holmes was unaffected as usual.

"I think something died in one of those crates over there." Miss Raincaster jerked her head forward and to the left of me.

I turned slowly to see a pile of crates of a light wood color, much like what one would use to transport pottery in. Holmes' eyes narrowed a bit as he stared upon the crates, striding over and proceeding to wedge the top of one loose with his cane. He then dug his long, delicate finger beneath the lid and wrenched it open, immediately pulling out a handkerchief and covering his face. I, myself, went to take a look, covering my mouth with my kerchief as well, but cried out in surprise at what I saw.

"So, what stage of decomposition is that corpse in anyhow?" Miss Raincaster queried lazily.

I made an about face, rage welling inside my entire being, "You knew?"

"I worked in a morgue for a bit." She continued, leaning up and sauntering over.

Her gait was as catlike as her eyes and each step seemed as controlled as that of a dancer. The woman's stride step was about as long as my own, despite our differentiating heights. Her hips moved fluidly and rhythmically, her feet barely making a noise upon the stone ground, her grace as prominent as her uncaring behavior.

"Why would you not report this to the authorities?" snarled Lestrade.

"Because," she drawled out while coming to stand beside my friend, "people like you start showing up, jumping to harebrained conclusions, and then I end up getting involved. It's bothersome."

"B-bothersome?" I ejaculated, "Have you no concern for human life?"

"Hey man, he's dead either way." That infuriating woman shrugged.

As it appeared, there lay a severed head inside the crate, skin a greenish colour, eyes wide and lifeless. The most disturbing fact was that the face possessed an expression of sheer euphoria, stiff from rigor mortis. I thought perhaps I had seen most of the gruesome aspects a murderer could inflict upon their victim, however, something in the grin I saw, stretched across the dead head's mouth, made my skin crawl, massive shivers sliding down my spine. I nearly wretched at the sight and I do believe my poor heart missed several beats.

"Five quid says the rest of him is in those."

"A sucker's bet." Holmes frowned, moving to remove the lids from the rest of the crates.

I knew my friend would not be as squeamish as I; he was simply not the type to gain a sentimental alarm from the death of a human being. Holmes worked to save lives, but for those who were already dead…they merely did not concern him emotionally. Of course there was an underlying hatred for the perpetrator, but no sorrow in his calculating heart. This woman however, mentioned the man as though he were some type of animal carcass with as much emotion as one reporting the weather.

"You have no heart." I glowered at her vehemently.

She turned to stare at me, her green eyes piercing through her lenses and not at all tolerant. I could feel her gaze as though it was tangible, a horrible scrutiny pinned upon me; I was a rat in her laboratory. Her eyes were meant for someone older, someone wiser and more knowledgeable. I noticed they were not the eyes of a young girl any longer. She looked me up, and down before replying, "Quite an odd comment for a doctor to make."

Holmes spun around to stare at me, then turned to the woman and enquired, "And how, Miss Raincaster, could you come across the knowledge that my dear friend, Dr. John Watson is indeed, a Doctor."

"It's monogrammed on his hankie." The girl pointed at my kerchief which peeked from my coat pocket.

It was a gift from Mary, the letters _Dr. J. W._ printed in a lovely script residing in one corner.

"By damn, she does the same trick as Mr. Holmes." Lestrade cried.

"…That's too easy." She muttered, turning away from the Inspector, obviously stopping the rude comment she was about to make at the cost of his pride.

By that time Holmes had managed to pry the lid from every crate and what I saw will remain in my mind until the day I die. The man had been completely dismembered, much like what Holmes promised to do to whoever chose to ever hurt me. His torso was in one box, nude and lacking his extremities which were no where to be seen, his arms in another crate and his legs in the other. The worst part of this disgusting visage was that the man had been eviscerated and most of the skeleton removed.

"And all the others whom thou seest here were, when living, sowers of scandal and schism, and therefore are they so cleft (2)." Miss Raincaster looked down with a mild expression of sympathy, asking to no one, "What did this poor bastard do to deserve the punishment of schismatics?"

"Watson." Holmes demanded my attention, querying, "Would someone need to be knowledgeable in medicine to do this?"

I took a closer look upon the body and noticed the precision of the villain's handiwork as Lestrade vomited in the back round, nodding my head to Holmes while speaking with a tight chest and twisting stomach, "Though the dismemberment was not done with a scalpel or saw."

"Oh, God." Lestrade continued to puke rather violently.

"I have this handled Inspector; you may leave if it so pleases you, though I suggest you send a few of your men to confiscate the remains." Holmes gave Lestrade a reassuring nod of his head, urging the man to leave.

Lestrade began to lumber away, his gait now a swagger, his hand holding the wall for support as he moved along. I watched the policeman for another second or so until my friend called my attention back to the corpse.

"Curious, his skin is green." Holmes murmured, "Hum! This is more interesting than I anticipated Watson."

"How so?" enquired I.

"Well, the man had a severe case of Jaundice, so why would a killer target him?"

"Killer gave it to him."

Both I and Holmes turned to Miss Raincaster, utterly mortified as she picked up an arm and tossed it to my friend. Holmes examined the arm as did I, noting rather fresh pricks from a syringe littering the radian artery, the bones were missing from the hand and wrist, its remains still connected to the arm.

"The guy was either a major junkie or someone drugged him."

"Junkie?" asked my dearest friend.

"Y'know…Heroin addict." She made jabbing motions by her arm.

"Yes, the lungs do look as though they have collapsed(3)." I commented as emotionlessly as possible.

Turning back to the arm I realized something rather peculiar about the hand…clotting.

I began to feel a bit faint as I drew attention to such an occurrence, swaying upon my feet a bit. I managed to keep on my toes even after Holmes clapped me on the shoulder and praised, "Good observation Watson! The victim was indeed alive when the bones were removed."

Lestrade was halfway down the alley at this point and in truth, I had half a mind to follow. Hearing a confused sound behind me I turned to find Miss Raincaster staring into the mouth of the dead man, stating, "I think there's chewing tobacco in his mouth."

My guts churned at the thought of her prying the mouth of that _thing_ open, glad I had not witnessed such a vile act. Holmes swiftly approached the young woman, his long strides taking him to her in two steps. Whence he stood beside the librarian I watched as both hunched over the head, their backs facing me now.

How curious…Holmes never stands that close to anyone.

Shaking my head I decided to look for myself, joining the other two in what Holmes would refer to as 'the game'. My eyes widened at what I saw in the man's mouth.

"This is most definitely not tobacco." Holmes frowned, quite puzzled with the chewed up weed.

"It's Khat(4)." I spoke up.

"A cat?" Miss Raincaster quirked an eyebrow at me.

"No, the drug." I frowned.

"But that is a stimulant…" My companion's face turned pale as he looked down on the lifeless eyes of the victim.

"So he was awake and possibly having a psychotic breakdown when his bones were removed." Miss Raincaster announced.

Perhaps it was the smell, or the fact that my sleeping patterns had not improved, or maybe it was merely the thought of being conscious when some monster decided to remove your bones, but I felt myself go limp, and my vision began to darken. As I lost consciousness I could hear the sound of Holmes voice, calling out my name.

* * *

1 Sherlock Holmes wrote a monograph called _Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos_.

2 A quote from Dante's _Inferno_ speaking of the punishment of schismatics.

3. Opiate users risk collapsing a lung and liver damage (along with a lot of other nasty symptoms), it is a characteristic of heroin.

4. Grown in the Arabian Peninsula and East Africa, Kaht is a stimulant that predates the use of coffee. Watson recognizes it because he must have seen it in Afghanistan.

This really didn't come out as planned but oh well. Please review!

Thank you Obssessed-anime-lover and Susicar!


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